


Weevil

by bandaran



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bug Guts, Feels, Flash Fic, Fluff, Knitting, M/M, Maidenly Asses, Monster of the Week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-10
Updated: 2016-08-10
Packaged: 2018-08-07 22:05:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7731478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bandaran/pseuds/bandaran
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They walk through the woods. They squabble. They makeout. That's literally it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Weevil

**Author's Note:**

> I was messing around with on of those prompt generators and this came tumbling out of my ass. I don't care if Derek Hale that knits has been done too many times to count. 
> 
> A PARTING GIFT FOR MY LOVELIES WHILE I'M ON VACATION. ENJOY THIS GIFT WRAPPED TURDLET OF A FLASH FIC. ILU

"This isn't about you. It's about what's best for all of us."  

Appalled, Stiles drops the load in his arms. Throws it down, really. 

 The dark of the nighttime woods obscures what is certain to be a macabre mess of green entrails and mystery fluids bursting on the leaf litter. The ungodly smell that kicks into the air forces a choked cough and back peddle out of Derek. Not even that is enough to make Stiles laugh. Because he's pissed. He's soaked in Christ knows what, he's tired, he's hungry, love is but a fleeting mirage and there is no God.  

"You  _delirious_  fuck-,"  

"Dude, please don't," pleads Scott, arm crooked over his nose and mouth.  

"I did _not_ sign on to monster cleanup detail to be pushed around – yet _again_ \-- by Derek 'I-can't-process-my-emotions' Hale. Actually," Stiles sucks in a breath because fuck this, these ass commanders are about to get woke, "I don’t _ever_ sign on for this crap. I get grabbed in the middle of the night. I've slipped off the trellis outside my window _twice_. The Jeep got rammed by a _fucking troll_ last week. Every time you people call me someone's bleeding or dying or  bewitched or kidnapped and I'm running out of baseball bats and underwear, because, oh yeah, I never have time to do laundry!" He thrusts a righteous finger at Derek, "You owe me _so_ hard you sour-pants-sassafrass and I am _not_ lugging this giant smashed asshole another step until you agree."  

Derek blinks a few times, clearly trying to stamp out the angry coals rising in his stomach. Stiles and he have moved into rockier territory somewhere beyond mutual annoyance/tolerance. It was a slow climb and not exactly deliberate, but all of a sudden the smug one-liners and sarcastic jabs had evolved darkly. And, of course, Stiles rises to the occasion of defense against people trying to shit on him, because this isn't playfully anymore. It's gotten borderline personal.  

Which.  

It stings a little more than Neosporin if he's being completely candid with himself.  

"Stiles, either you pick that thing up or I'm going to snap you in half." Derek's still struggling to balance his own chunk of the satanic ass weevil and is just as steeped in its rancid juices as he and Scott. Something that may have been a segmented – insect? - leg is thrown over his shoulder and a sack of, fuck, Stiles doesn’t even know what is cradled to his chest.  

Stiles rolls his eyes and pretends to cower in fear, "Oh no, big scary wolf, making empty threats. I'm paralyzed with terror." 

"Dude," beseeches Scott, beggar's eyes on Derek, "Just agree, _please_." 

Derek drops his parcel of guts and leg-bits and strides to well within Stiles' bubble. Not a new occurrence, because Derek is a predictable turd that relies on size and threats to get what he wants, but it's something he hasn't done to Stiles since high school graduation. Hasn't crowded him, hasn't touched him. Hell, he stands on the far side of any room they're in together.  

"I said no." He growls.  

"Seriously, how is this even something you're fighting about?" groans Scott also throwing down the massive tangle of hell-parasite in his arms.  

Ignoring him, Stiles pokes Derek in the chest, "This one time, it _is_ about me, big guy. Ok, I don't ask for a lot and I always come running when your maidenly ass is passed out in whatever the monster hot spot of the week is. You give me this or I swear on the sweet, puckered starfish of our fluffy Lord, that this is the last time I come when you call." It's not true, but pretending to have the ability to walk away from his pack still makes him feel better in a really fucked up way.  

Derek's mouth pulls into that angry little button that Stiles has only seen on him a handful of occasions. Like, _gonna kill someone in a major way_ , type occasions. It doesn't make him falter in the least. Derek, while broody and intimidating, will not hurt him. If he can't even bring himself to touch Stiles, how the hell does he intend to tear him apart? Unless this turns into a supernatural episode of Dexter. Which, intriguing, but gross.  

"Why are you even still here?" Derek demands, breath hot on the tops of Stiles' cheeks, warming them against the biting autumn night.  

"Well, I can't exactly just stomp off into the woods in a random direction, can I? Which I totally _would do_ if there was any fucking GPS reception is in tHIS GODDAMN HORRORSHITSCAPE!"  

"That's not what I mean!" It's not quite a yell because Derek doesn't yell. Not at people anyway, but it's the closest Stiles has ever heard to actual, real-life inflection in his voice. Derek's eyes fire up bright blue in response to the rise in volume. 

It's startling. There are other emotions muddled in there too. Other repressed-by-food-and-masturbating-things, that Stiles, for the gazillionth time since being a trespassing sixteen-year-old has refused to put under too much scrutiny. Be. Cuz. Reasons.  

Stiles cuts out, "What a surprise, once again Derek Hale is misunderstood due to lack of socialization and non-recognition of facial cues-,"  

"Why are you still in Beacon Hills!" Derek shouts. That was a real shout. Stiles can't help flinching. Maybe they were getting along worse than before, and maybe Stiles passive-aggressively (childishly) lashing out at the sudden drought of attention only aggravated things, but never for a second did he think Derek's diminished patience with him was ignited by _hatred_ _._ And that... that doesn't just sting.  

That fucking hurts.  

He knows the wound is plain on his face, knows the kind of smells emotions like these push into the air. Derek has a lot of anger, but he's not necessarily an angry person. He doesn't tear people down for no reason. He doesn’t tear people down at all.  

The sudden wash of mortification and sadness tightens in all of his joints, twists in his throat. Stiles needs to get out of here. He's going to cry, he can feel it. He doesn't break down at the drop of hat; years of wolves and monsters and whatever else gets crapped out of the cosmic Sphincter of Doom has hardened him, perhaps to his detriment, against crumbling over nothing. But this is not nothing. This is Derek being so repulsed by him, dismissive of all the time and care he's given the pack, that the wolf can't even comprehend why a spaz like Stiles is still buzzing around them at all.  

Stiles glances at Scott and the look on Scott's face serves to shred him to finer ribbons. Remorse plays out in Scott's features, remorse and pity; not the steely energy Stiles has ridden every time someone tries to drag his best friend through the mud. Scott takes a step forward, puts a hand on Derek's arm and ushers him to take a step back.  

"Scott?" Stiles croaks, abruptly furious.  

Scott shoots a glare at Derek, who doesn't even notice him.  

"Dude, he means," Scott's mouth compresses and he scratches the back of his neck, "You and Lydia were like neck and neck for valedictorian. And - I wasn’t snooping, I promise – but I saw the acceptance letters on your desk a couple years ago. You got into a lot of good schools, but you didn’t go. You didn’t even mention it." 

Stomach wrenching, Stiles stares at Derek. Derek's folded up his arms tight to his chest, his eyes dropped to the ground.  

"We didn't push it, you know?" Continues Scott, "I figured you wanted to take a year off or something, like decide what you wanted to do. But then... you just kept not doing anything. I mean, Derek even left police academy brochures on your fridge," he laughs weakly.  

"That was you?" Stiles asks breathily. Derek won't look at him.  

"Yeah, man, but anytime we try to bring it up you do that thing where you like deflect until we drop it."  

"You're too smart to stay here," Derek says gruffly, glaring at the ground.  

"You, Scott, you're not going to college!" Stiles snaps.  

Shaking his head, Derek steps in again before Scott can stop him, bright, beautiful eyes clapping on to him finally, "Scott's apprenticing with Deaton. He's going to vet school next year for certification. Working at Mazza's waiting tables isn't the same."  

"Well," ok, he's losing logical high ground here, dumbly grasping at straws, "you didn't go either!"  

"My pack is my job-," 

" _OK_ , big guy, the pack is my job too; the only difference here is that one of us is independently wealthy."  

"You have potential," Derek grinds out so harshly Stiles almost misses the compliment, "You want to help the pack? Go to school. Pick up a trade. Travel. Do _something._ Staying here, doing the same thing over and over doesn't help anyone, least of all you. You have to _grow up._ " 

And suddenly the sharper edges, the avoidance, the hard jibes, are clarified. Stiles is a fucking moron. Since when has Derek distanced himself from things he hates? He's got a martyr's cross jammed so far up his ass he practically craves emotional flagellation. No. He keeps himself from things he cares about. 

There's a new scent between them. Stiles can't pick up on it, obviously, but he knows how heavily Derek relies on smell to judge social situations. He knows the small changes in Derek's face when the emotional latitude of a conversation shifts. There's a slight flare in his nostrils, his back straightens up and the rest of him is about as unreadable as the _Twilight Saga_. Stuff like this used to embarrass him.  

That pack life though?  

They've all seen each other buck-ass nude for whatever reason too many times to count. There are no boundaries. The lack of limits opened up communication to a level Stiles doesn't even have with his dad, which is to say a very high level. A high level played on Legendary _._ So the others, Derek, being able to pick out his feelings from scent? At this point it just saves time. Although, if Stiles had to guess what his wolves are smelling wafting off of him at this exact moment? The words pheromones and _thirst_ come to mind.   

But, honestly, he stayed because he loves his pack too much to go. He can't bear to think of no more midnight runs to Seven/Eleven with Erica to slake a wolf craving for doughnuts and Slurpees. Or missing pack meetings or movie night or chattering at Boyd while he tinkers with his motorcycle or late night research sessions with Scott. Or Derek. Grudgingly, he knows that Derek is a big part of what's rooting him here, even though it's pathetic.  

The sonnets that instantly come to mind when he sees Derek and the flutter in his belly have lessened over time purely due to constant exposure to the blinding, frowny, scorching hotness and prickly/mostly fake for the sake of self-preservation assholish/adorable/secret-sweet personality. At some point, his body found some chill. Not, like, a lot, but enough to stop him drooling any time Derek looks at him.  

Regardless, none of it is a good reason to stay. He knows it.  

But change? Change is the real fear factor here. Nothing good comes of change, of leaving.  

Stiles chews lightly on his lip and then, "You've been a nuclear dick to me this whole time to get me to, like, to leave the nest? Or den, I guess?"  

Derek stares at him, the cords in his arms going taut. It looks like an affirmative stare for the most part, but when is it ever easy to tell what Derek's trying to say? Derek has totally been mother-hen-ing the shit out of him this whole time in the most bizarre, stupid way possible because _Derek._  

 _"Oh my God_." Stiles leans toward him and is met with weary eyes, "You _love_ me."  

"Stiles," he sighs, and holy shit Stiles has _missed_ that long-suffering sigh. He's painfully aware of just how upset he was over thinking Derek had had it with him now that Derek's not death-glaring him as hard as he has been.  

"Hold the fucking phone," Stiles chuckles, "You love me. You love me _so_ _much_ you did this whole, frankly, counterproductive, reverse psychology crap for," he counts on his fingers back to when he first noticed the growing distance between them, " _eight months._ That's dedication. That's _feelings."_  

"Dude, you're doing it," Scott groans, "stop deflecting and just listen. We're worried." 

"Hang on there Scotty, this is between me and Mama Wolf," Stiles snaps, thrusting a flat palm somewhere in Scott's general vicinity, "I get that you're trying to help, I do, I get that, but Derek, I'm basically as much of an emotional sadist as you are. I'm built for rejection. It replenishes my electrolytes. Being mean to me is literally a sure-fire way to make sure I _don't_ leave."   

"We don't want you to leave," Scott chirps instantly from the periphery.  

"We want you to pick a direction," Derek grumbles, "Pack has to be part of your life. Not all of your life."  

"You _just-,"_  

But Derek puts up his pointer finger and continues on looking all authoritative and grimy with bug-splooge and Stiles tries to listen because the image is, uh, it's doing _things_ to him. Derek says, "The pack is my job, but it's not all I do. I don’t sit around all day obsessing over it." 

Stiles squawks, mouth falling open, " _I_ _do_ _not_ _sit around all day_ _obs_ _essing_. Also, are you trying to tell me right now that you have a part-time job at, like, Pinkberry or something?"  

"He knits," says Scott and Derek's eyes nearly pop out of his skull. His heavy, dark brow shoots up as he turns a half terrified, half blazing-fires-of-hell glare on Scott.  

" _What?_ " Stiles hisses. He's decided, right now, that Derek Hale is his fucking soulmate. That's all there is. He will go to his grave pining for a pissed off, emotionally stunted, werewolf, douche-canoe that _knits_.  

Scott shrugs innocently at Derek, "What, dude? You're really good." And Derek continues to glare like he's frozen in place, still rebooting.  

"Since _when_?" Stiles implores circling into Derek's eye line.  

Derek blinks a few times and then his gaze flits to a few vague points to his right, "Always."  

"Since _always,"_ parrots Stiles, giddy with delight. He can be pissed at both of them for keeping this shiny gem from him for this long later.  

"Yeah and he sells a ton of stuff on-,"  

" _Scott_ ," Derek growls.  

" _Ohmygod,"_ Stiles wheels on his best friend, "You were gonna say Etsy. Please say Etsy – no wait," he spins back around, points at Derek, "Better plan. _You_ say Etsy. Pleeeeaaassee I need to hear the word Etsy come out of Derek Hale's mouth."  

"The point," Derek grinds lowly, "is that you need something outside of the pack or you'll start to resent it."  

Stiles blinks. He hears the words, they're good words, encouraging and grumpy at the same time, but now all he can think is of how many times he's seen other pack members prance around the loft in cable knit sweaters and scarves and beanies so precisely crafted he'd just assumed they were store bought.  

That also means... he's the only one that never got anything.  

"How come you never made me anything?" He asks, sinking feeling overtaking the excitement that had him bubbly and light a moment ago. He doesn't have to turn around to remember that Scott's wearing fingerless gloves with the snappy mitten part for when it gets too cold. Stiles loves snappy-mitten-part-gloves.  

Derek holds his gaze, still guarded, unsure maybe, "I did," he says finally. It slips out softly, almost under his breath.  

"I think I would have noticed and been embarrassingly ecstatic over getting a present from you."  

"I-," Derek rolls his eyes, his ears standing out bright red in the moonlight, "I never finished any of them."  

"Why not?"  

He huffs out a silvery cloud of frustrated breath, "They weren't good."  

"Scott," Stiles says firmly, "look away." 

Scott pipes out, "Huh?" 

It would not come as shock to find out that Derek has never experienced the sensation of being hugged or at least that it's been a very long time since anyone offered. His reaction to Stiles throwing his arms around his neck, pressing into him, is to go rigid like he thinks Stiles is going to bite him or something. Which, fair; Stiles would be immensely amenable to biting. And licking. And sucking. Everywhere.  

"Jesus," Stiles snorts, refusing to let go, "make an effort Sourwolf." And he squeezes tighter. Derek complies after a moment and Stiles can feel the concentration pouring off of him. Big arms wrap him uptight, pull the entire length of Stiles into a flush seam.  

Derek reeks to high Asgard. They both do. But he's so _warm._ Of course, Stiles knows how hot wolves run (apparently in both the temperature and attractiveness sense), but they're rarely this close to each other and he'd meant it as a gesture of thanks; he had, really. Except he's so sore all over. The cuts of his knuckles and elbows have been burning all night. Stiles resists the urge to just collapse into sleep right there.  

"I'll take some community center courses or something," Stiles mumbles into Derek's shoulder. Maybe things don’t have to drastically up-heave. The thing he's been dreading is the pack falling apart as their lives become bigger. He just can't stand the thought of losing everyone, or everyone deciding they don’t want to _try_ to stay together.  

But stagnation is just as poisonous, isn't it?  

He's smart enough to know that, just not brave enough to change it.  

Derek's voice rumbles in his ear, "It'll," he swallows, "be ok." Stiles squeezes his eyes shut. Derek's so bad at trying to comfort people that he's circled all the way back to being amazing at it.  

Stiles is about to say something, probably something sarcastic or shit eating, when his brain goes totally blank. Blank, for good reason, ok? Because there is a very hard – situation – developing just below his belly button. And for once, it's not him.  

Derek Hale, presumed celibate, werewolf, Obi-Wan Kenobi that _knits_ , has a fucking erection.  

He seems to become aware of it at the same time as Stiles because they immediately disengage. Because _what?_ This is... this is a fucking miracle bequeathed from on high. And what's the best part about this whole thing? Derek looks absolutely mortified by his body's betrayal, but he doesn't look _surprised_ by it.  

An important distinction.  

"Scott," Stiles says raggedly, eyes still locked with Derek's, "dude, you gotta _go_."  

Scott groans from behind, "Nooo, seriously? Dude, Erica's about to win like five hundred bucks. Can you guys pleeeaase just not fuck for like six more months? I spent all of my paycheck on that Firefly Loot Crate."  

Stiles whips around, flails, but doesn't fall, "Wait. You assholes were betting–," 

Grinning, Scott backs away, his portion of the creature guts forgotten. When he's disappeared into the shadows Stiles barks, "I know this is coming from a place of misappropriated defiance, but I am literally considering not climbing you like a tree just so they all lose." He turns on Derek, slants a curious gaze at him, "What did you knit me?"  

Derek makes a small, close-lipped, _bashful_ smile, and his eyes sweep the ground. Yeah, Stiles just went from zero to rebar in two seconds. His dick presses uncomfortably into his fly. Just two hard idiots standing around in the woods.  

"You're always complaining – loudly – how cold your feet get in the loft."  

"You tried to make me socks?"  

Derek nods.  

"Why... why weren't they good?" 

He shrugs noncommittally. It's infuriating. It's adorable. Stiles strides up to him, gets right in his business. "I don't care if they're riddled with holes, _I want them_."  

"I made eight pairs."  

Stiles kisses him. Derek isn't exactly giving him any other choice. Hugging may not be his thing, but Derek's all over kissing. He's got kissing down to a fucking science. It's hungry and wet and hand's plant on the small of Stiles' back, over his ass. And they're both covered in sticky pupa-slime and it doesn't even matter. Stiles is incredibly likely to come in his pants in the next two seconds anyway because Derek's got him straddled over his thigh, hands heavy and encouraging, urging Stiles to rut against him.   

Fine.  

Not all change is bad.  

Stiles breaks the slot of their mouths and pants, "So getting back to the original point of this argument - it's _my turn_ to pick dinner; I don't care what's good for the pack. I want Easy Mac."   

"No."  

Stiles waggles his brows, "What if I eat you out for dessert?"  

"No."  

"Say you have feelings for me."  

"...."  

"Say Etsy."  

" _Stiles_."  

 

 

 

 


End file.
